Soup
by bitchybrave
Summary: Wendy and Stan reunite at a slightly melancholy time in their lives, and each find the other to be vastly different from the person they remember. Angst ensues. Rated T for drug use, sexual content and coarse language.
1. Chapter 1

Wendy walked into the soup kitchen. It was 6:53 am and she wasn't even a little tired, as she usually had something booked that required her getting up this early most days anyway.

She was sixteen, a slightly stocky blue eyed overachiever, who attended regular meetings of The Young Philosophers Club, she was head of the Drama and French Club and helped out with the support group the school counsellor had implemented on Tuesday afternoons.

She played lacrosse and got straight A's. She carried an immense passion for caring and advocating for the less fortunate through her life, which tells you what she was doing at the soup kitchen.

* * *

The same could not be said for Stan Marsh, whom was working at the kitchen trying to fulfil a mandatory 72 hours of community service.

His drinking got heavier, starting with seventh grade he was seldom seen attending school.

He'd pick a day each semester to show up, quite often he'd appear obviously hungover.

By eighth grade he'd broken up with Wendy via a drunk dial, which his sober alter ego had been intending to do anyway, he claims.

Stan attended two days of his freshman year and during the summer he urinated on Kyle's house after he'd hooked up with Eric at a party.

He yelled all the insults, bigoted remarks and taunts Cartman had used to torment Kyle when they were kids, at least as many as he could remember in his usual state of drunken stupor.

Sheila pressed charges and here he was, vowing to himself he'd make no attempt to interact with anyone and he'd thaw all the food while listening to amateur remixes of Wiz Khalifa on Spotify.

It barely even fazed him when his former elementary school sweetheart walked in and hung her coat up on the back of the kitchen door.

* * *

The same could not be said for Wendy, who had to do a triple take upon seeing Stan.

He was holding a couple boxes of frozen pastries and was putting them on a large tray, head down, mouthing along to the music playing through his earphones.

She wasn't sure what to say.

* * *

"Hi, Stan…" Wendy tried to initiate a conversation, in a half-assed peppy/perky tone.

He looked up and acted like he hadn't heard her, because his music was so loud, he actually hadn't.

She gestured for him to take his headphones out by tugging at the air around her ears. "Oh. Hi, Wendy."

He immediately tried to put them back in, but she gave him a stern look.

"If you're going to ask what I'm doing here, don't bother, I'm not telling."

She chuckled "Don't be silly, Stan! I've heard…How many hours?"

"72."

A shitty remix of a Drake song was blaring through Stan's headphones.

"Ugh, can you turn that off? I can't _stand_ rap music…"

"Good for you."

Silence.

"Geez, just trying to start conversation…we get a new person here for community service every week and usually they'r-"

"There you go again."

Wendy felt her eyes roll into the back of her head. She stalked off into the kitchen for a new box of pastries.


	2. Chapter 2

The South Park High cafeteria was crowded and stunk like freshmen boys who had just finished a two period gym class. It wasn't that it didn't always smell like that, but Wendy found herself scrunching up her nose while she walked through the lunch line.

"Oh yeah, Lola fucked Kyle on Sunday. At Craig's party." Bebe tossed her ponytail in front of her shoulder and reached for a pair of tongs.

"Kyle. He gets around these days, huh?" Wendy replied.

"Yeah, you heard he fucked Craig too, right? Fuckin' manwhore." Bebe and Wendy dropped off the lunch line will full trays and made their way over to their lunch table.

Seated at the lunch table was Lola, Red, Nichole, Heidi, and Annie. Only the latter of the girls acknowledged their arrival with a somber "Hi, Bebe. Hi, Wendy."

Bebe took her place at the center of the bench on the left, leaving Wendy to scavenge for a seat on the edges.

"Sooo, his dick was kind of tic tac-y but it was good, not that I was sober enough to remember! No, fuck, I was sooo wasted…"

Lola spoke with extravagant hand gestures and the girls corresponded with giggles.

Wendy ate in silence as the girls shared party stories, some from yesterday, some from a few years ago.

She had exactly one party story, one she'd never tell.

* * *

Class was tiring. Wendy sat next to Heidi and Red, who were further exchanging recounts of the sex they'd had in blurry, alcohol fueled momentary flashbacks.

She was trying to take notes, but Jesus Christ, they spoke so loud.

You'd think these boys would object to having estimates of their dick size broadcasted across the Social Studies classroom, but some of the boys were looking back, unfazed and somewhat content.

Wendy tried to filter the classroom's chatter out and focus on whatever their sub was putting on the board

* * *

Wendy arrived home at two to four and flopped on the couch as soon as she walked in the door.

She had to study for the next two hours, at six she had lacrosse practice…but she stared at the ceiling, anticipating her own decision to get up and do something.

* * *

Stan lay on the couch and stared at his concrete ceiling. He'd finished cleaning out his apartment and he was tired. He couldn't do this shit without snorting some Adderall, but he reminded himself, he was clean now.

He got up a few minutes later and carried out a trash bag full of bottles.

It was six o'clock on the dot and Stan was having trouble thinking of something to do. He knew he'd usually just drink if he got bored, but he couldn't do that now. He tried to remember what he was like before he started drinking. He must have been…nine?

He wanted to save the whales.

* * *

That was right, he liked animals. He wanted to protect them, to advocate for them. He'd read somewhere that many teenage girls were animal rights activists too, because they identified with things that were weak and helpless.

He was not a teenage girl, and he didn't feel weak and helpless.

Well, not all the time. He did when he was drinking, and when he wasn't…and when he was snorting whatever kind of prescription he could find in his mother's medicine cabinet, and when he tried heroin that one time.

And when he was sober and thinking about that.

But he never felt like the bottle ruled him, with an iron fist. No, he didn't!

He tried to give his mind a little nudge, giving it a sign it had to think about something else.

This "apartment" (In reality it was a storage unit, rented out for $30 a week. It looked much nicer when he cleared all of the bottles off the floor) was not far from his former friends' neighbourhood.

He missed them sometimes, now more than ever as he wasn't drinking to numb the pain. That fucking restraining order though…

* * *

The clock struck 7 and he realized he had somewhere to be. The soup kitchen. He put on a coat and walked…he found an old hat outside the storage complex.

It was a fedora, made of weaved straw with a blue patterned ribbon wrapped around it.

He put it on, and saw his reflection in a parked car. It made his red acne, dry black hair and watering blue eyes look dignified, he decided.

He wiped off an old bit of bird shit and kept it on, all the way to the kitchen.


	3. Chapter 3

Wendy and Stan stood at opposite ends of a metal counter, each performing several different tasks pertaining to cooking a Thanksgiving dinner.

It was November 25th, 12:07am, and they'd been at it for 3 hours: you know, actually cooking things for the kitchen's regulars, a luxury reserved for three holidays year round.

On the other 362 days South Park's homeless were served slightly chewy with age pastries and canned pea and ham soup.

Wendy had just put a pumpkin pie in the oven and was fanning herself somewhat dramatically while Stan was preparing a turkey for basting.

They weren't speaking as Wendy was denying her words the chance to get off the tip of her tongue in fear of rejection, yet again.

She wasn't expecting Stan to pick out one of his headphones and say

"So what are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

Wendy looked puzzled

"I'm just doing a thing with the family, nothing special…"

"Huh. Nice."

Silence.

"What about you?"

Wendy's urge to chat was satisfied at last.

"Oh, well you know about the whole parents cutting me off thing..."

Stan trailed off, and Wendy still looked puzzled.

"I don't know," he concluded.

"Oh…" she said "Are you going to spend Thanksgiving all alone?"

He shrugged "Probably."

Both of them tried to think of something to say, something to keep to conversation going. They couldn't; it ended there.

* * *

Stan slipped his headphones back into his ears and turned up the volume. He continued to mouth along to the lyrics. This time Wendy recognized the melody.

He hummed.

"Hmm..this…time…myyyyyyy…daaad..called me a horseshoe craaaaab."

"It's caught." She interrupted.

"What?" he looked at her briefly

"It's caught, as in "my dad caught me a horseshoe crab."

"Huh? Actually?"

"Yeah. Why would you call someone a horseshoe crab? I've never heard that used as an insult!"

Stan didn't think that Wendy's comment was funny, but he chuckled anyway.

She looked away from him and grimaced.

* * *

An hour passed and Stan had two turkeys in the large metal oven. Wendy was mixing puree for another pumpkin pie, and again, neither was speaking. Wendy broke the silence

"You can't spend Thanksgiving alone, Stan…"

He looked at her, unfazed yet again by her idealism.

"Sure I can. I've got a couch and a TV."

Wendy shook her head.

"Look. I can probably make an extra reservation for you at the Testaburger's Thanksgiving table. You just have to deal with all my adult cousins and grandma asking if you're my boyfriend."

Stan shifted his gaze off her and stared off into the distance.

He knew he should say no. He wanted to say no.

He remembered very little about celebrating Thanksgiving as a non-alcoholic, but the few memories that popped up when someone said the word were like war flashbacks.

He preferred drinking 5 cans of beer in a one hour streak and watching the static on his old TV. But he couldn't do that anymore…

"Uh, that's really nice of you, Wendy…"

Wendy tilted her head, anticipating an answer

"But, um, no thank you."

He scratched the back of his neck and turned away from her, towards the oven.

She continued laying pie shells on a metal tray.

* * *

At about 4am, the two were finished cooking and setting up the tables. Wendy untied her apron, picked up her white peacoat of the back of the door, and swiftly exited the

kitchen. Stan was out almost as quickly, grabbing a half pumpkin pie he had cooked for himself, and leaving with his coat half on.

Stan opened the wooden door leading out to the street and heard the clicking of Wendy's heeled boots on the pavement.

"Wait. Wait. Wendy!"

She snapped her head around and stood still for a second.

"Um, I was thinking…yeah…yeah! I will come with you to your family's Thanksgiving dinner."

Wendy smiled and clasped her hands above her chest.

"Oh..what made you change your mind?"

Stan did not know the answer to this question. Perhaps there was something very attractive about it all, and it wasn't her. It was the proposition of spending Thanksgiving with a, well, friend.

"Uh you know, since I'm not drinking anymore, I'm gonna be a little lonely on Thanksgiving…"

He gave a little awkward chuckle, hoping that wouldn't sound like he was trying to pick her up.

"Cool! Come round to my place at 11:30, okay?"

"O-kay!

She smiled again and waved, disappearing down the hill into the pink and orange sunrise.


	4. Chapter 4

Wendy sat directly opposite Bebe in a two-seater booth, facing the window. Bebe was taking large handfuls of French fries and shoveling them into her mouth after dipping them in ketchup, and Wendy was picking at some processed salad.

Bebe wore dark tinted aviators and a familiar red letter jacket.

"Clyde?" Wendy asked.

"Yeah. He's pretty good." Bebe replied

"Humph."

"What's going on, dahrling?"

Wendy stopped to think.

The honest way to answer would be to admit her cluelessness, but honesty had never been her strong suit when it came to talking to herself. Which she was doing now…

"Eh. Nothing much."

Silence.

"How's Stan?" Bebe smirked with the right corner of her mouth.

"Huh?"

"I saw him coming into your house on Thanksgiving."

"Where were you?"

"In the park right across from your house!"

"Seriously? You got wasted on Thanksgiving?"

The park in question was notorious for being rampant with teenagers getting all kinds of high and drunk on most weekends and holidays.

"Yes, but honey, you are _not_ one to talk! What the fuck were you doing hanging out with the world's youngest town drunk? On _Thanksgiving_?!" Bebe's smirk had spread to the other corner of her lips.

Wendy's eyes widened in shock.

"Haha, I'mmmm kidding! I know you were just providing facilities to him so he didn't drink himself into someone else's turkey filling, you selfless little bitch."

Bebe giggled and propped her aviators above her hairline, revealing bloodshot eyes with a faded black line surrounding them. Ah, Wendy thought. The reveal.

"I'm a little high right now, Wends."

"I can see that."

Again, Bebe giggled.

"You know where Lola, Red, Heidi and Sally are?"

Wendy shook her head.

"They're smoking grass at that park we were talking about…Fitzwilliam, Fitzjohn..? Fitzpatrick Park."

Wendy nodded. She knew what was coming next.

* * *

"You gotta get me outta class, Wends! I promised Lola I'd bring my glassy. And Clydeeeeeee'ss gonna be there!" Bebe pleaded.

"Fine. Come with me to the office." Wendy lifted herself off her chair and propped up her backpack. Bebe stood and slid on her sunglasses so they would once again cover her eyes.

Wendy, being exactly one year and six days older than Bebe, was apparently allowed to sign the younger girl out. Wendy did not know this rule existed until Bebe needed to get out to go get some kind of intoxicated in the spring of freshman year. Eventually Wendy would be signing Bebe out a couple times a week.

It only occurred to Wendy how stupid and dangerous this rule was as she was signing her intitals, with a loopy W. Nothing good can come of that, Wendy thought as she dropped the pen and waved at Bebe.

Bebe wrapped her arm around Wendy's neck and kissed her on the cheek.

"Bye Wends! Loooove you!"

"And that's why we're beeest friends." Wendy muttered as she walked away from the office.

It had occurred to her that most of her friendships were no longer based on mutual respect and adoration.

They were now based on commodities.

Wendy could be Bebe's designated driver and sign her out of school. Bebe could fill Wendy in on all the latest gossip.

That was all they did.

Talk about everyone else to hide the newfound emptiness in a space which once held something, something right and real.

* * *

Wendy shuffled her way through class and felt stress and worry wrap itself around her head, like an anaconda.

"It's choking me but it feels okay. I don't recall a time when I didn't feel like this."

"What?"

Stan looked back at Wendy as he washed his hands in the soup kitchen's metal sink.

"Nothing."

Wendy bared her teeth and the corners of her eyes crinkled. She was trying to smile.


	5. Chapter 5

Wendy and Stan stood on the same side of a metal bench, laying pastries out on one large tray.

Stan's phone laid beside the two, playing The Weeknd out loud. Stan mouthed the word along to The Hills.

Wendy broke the newly comfortable silence by singing.

"I only call you when it's .five!"

The only time that I'd be . side!"

She chuckled and pointed to Stan, who was taken aback.

"I only love it when you touch me, n-not feel me…"

They sang the last few lines together in a chorus

"When I'm fucked up, that's the real me,

When I'm fucked up, that's the real me…"

They erupted with laughter when they're finished, and went back to laying pie shells on the tray.

* * *

"Hey, does being a former alcoholic give you any powers?"

Wendy smiled.

"Like what?"

Stan reciprocated her grin.

"Hm…do you know what I dreamed about last night?"

"Was it a sex dream?"

"Nah, though I did have one of those last week."

"Was it like an acid trip?"

"Not really."

"Well I have no fucking idea then, but I wanna hear. Tell all, Ms Testaburger."

"Uh, well you remember Bebe Stevens."

"Oh yeah, you still tight as shit with her?"

"Meh, kind of. Anyway, I had a dream about her being a financial consultant on a TV breakfast show. Bebe was the newsreader girl, and I was in the audience. She was telling us the stock rate of gold, and oil. And smiling evilly the entire time"

"Huh."

"Weird dream, right? What do you think it means?"

"I think it means you've spent too much time studying for your Commerce class.

"You're probably right. Still I wonder."

* * *

"Does Bebe still have massive tits?"

"Oh yeah.. I'm seeing em' after we get out of here."

Stan raised his left eyebrow.

"I mean I'm seeing her. She's going to get fucked up at a party she's throwing at her place. I gotta be the designated driver for 45 or so people."

"Ah. Lucky you. I'd rather be number 46, but you don't do that, do you?"

"…no."

"Good chat, Wendy."

The clock struck nine and Wendy and Stan grabbed their coats. They said their goodbyes and departed feeling a weight had been lifted.


	6. Chapter 6

Wendy was thirteen and 5'2.

She adjusted the tissue stuffed in her bra and straightened her spine.

She looked good. She'd never exactly look hot, like her friend Bebe.

32A just didn't cut it when it came to looking _hot._

But she looked fine. Pretty, even.

* * *

Speaking of her blonde best friend, Bebe was throwing a party to celebrate the end of seventh grade.

The party was being held at Fitzpatrick Park, right across from her house

Wendy looked in the mirror and smiled. She walked out the door with her head held high.

She arrived at the party a couple minutes early and saw Bebe and some other people crowded around a tree with a bottle of..whiskey?

"Heyyy, Wendy! We're playing Never Have I Ever!"

Kyle waved in her direction.

It all seemed a bit much. I mean, they were only graduating seventh grade. They weren't even finished with middle school yet.

But she sat down and watched her friends drink to the questions, some being outlandish and others being questionably common.

* * *

She took a swig of the whiskey bottle 5 or so times. By the time everyone had become bored with the game Wendy was pleasantly buzzed.

She saw a tray of shots on a bench and began to indulge herself. She took one. She raised it in the air and whispered

"This, is to fitting in."

She grinned and gulped it. She coughed a little and grasped at her throat.

It didn't burn as much as the movies said it would.

* * *

She downed maybe four shots before her vision started to blur.

She saw Bebe making out with…Craig on a park table?

Lola and Annie were lezzin' out behind a bush.

Kyle sat under a smaller tree, on his own. Wendy, feeling horny and reckless for the first time, approached him.

"Wanna do this?" she slurred.

Kyle paused. He looked to the left, and then to the right as if he were crossing a road. He nodded.

They stumbled their way down to a bush and hopped behind it. Kyle began to unzip Wendy's dress and slobber her way down her neck.

* * *

Wendy woke up in a familiar bedroom. She smiled. It must have been all a dream, because I'm sitting here in my bed an-fuck! Someone's got their hand on my waist!

She backed up out of her bed with the speed and determination of Usain Bolt.

Alas, it was Kyle. That explained the memory of something wet and thick between her thighs and a green hat underneath.

It was at this exact moment she remembered she had a boyfriend and she wanted to cry.

She wanted to scream because she was so fucking angry at herself.

How did she let her standards slip like this?

She wanted to tear the whole goddamn place apart.

But she didn't. Her head was pounding and she felt nauseous as shit. She collapsed back onto her bed and slept.

Five hours later, she woke up, puked, and ushered Kyle out.

She came back in, slammed the door behind her and screamed, punching everything solid in sight.

She finally collapsed on a puddle in the floor and sobbed.


	7. Chapter 7

Stan was shuffling around the dark, tree lined suburbia that used to be his neighbourhood, looking for a dark blue 193. Bebe's house.

He walked past every landmark, shook his head and tried to forget.

He was almost angry. He knew every stupid fucking family that lived in every one of these stupid fucking houses, and they didn't know him.

Not anymore.

He watched Kevin and Heidi's moms walk around him in their fur lined coats, and a concerned whisper sounded further and further away, following their huddling all the way down to the end of the empty street.

* * *

Gradually the dreadfully suburban silence faded out to a steady synth beat alongside chatting and every fifth beat or so, a scream. As soon as it peaked he knew he'd found the place.

Stan ducked into the gate and moved several people aside until he found someone who looked fairly sober.

He approached him, a boy who looked about fourteen. He had tousled blonde hair and a red solo cup in one hand.

His gaze shifted about nervously.

"Hey kid, do you know where Wendy is?"

The guy looked up at Stan and ignored him. Stan wasn't sure if he hadn't heard him, but it seemed unlikely since they were locking eyes.

Stan tapped the kid. "Hey kid? Wendy? Wendy Testaburger? Do you know her?"

"Stan?"

* * *

Stan paused. He realized two things:

1) 1. He was definitely correct about this kid being sober

2) 2. This was Butters!

"Hey, um, hi Butters.."

"Stan! How's it going!"

Butters got up on his toes to put his arm around Stan.

Stan smiled.

"You're kind of nursing that beer."

Butters looked down as his full cup and chuckled halfheartedly.

"Oh yeah, I'm ah, not much for alcohol, but this uh, nice guy offered me one, and aha, who am I to say no?"

Stan sighed internally with relief.

"Maybe you should pour that drink out then."

Butters nodded. His wide eyes didn't move an inch, they stared straight ahead with the uttermost faith in Stan.

* * *

"So, um, Wendy? Do you know where I can find her?"

"Oh, Wendy! She's right over there."

Stan looked in the direction of Butter's finger and saw a girl with straight black hair, slumped sideways against the front porch's wall.

He waved back at Butters while he approached her. He sat beside the girl and whispered her name.

"Hi, Stan."

"Hi, Wendy.."

"What's wrong?"

"I meant to be driving..,"

Stan paused. It was very apparent what had happened here.

* * *

"Did you drive anyone?"

"Not after the first drink.."

Wendy cradled her head in her hands and sobbed.

Stan picked her up and walked her down the road.

They were silent. They couldn't see a thing but the dim porch lights and every time a car drove by, he could see Wendy's eyes glistening as she looked ahead. He walked her up to a bench and sat down.

* * *

"Wendy, what happened?"

"It's a Tuesday, Stan, what are we even celebrating?"

She sniffled.

"I know…all the kids and the housewives and the fathers who work nine to five jobs...they know they're going to die here."

Stan listened.

"So the kids, they get it started early. They know, every bottle drained, and every fucking joint and line…one step closer to death. They want to die slowly, but they want to feel absolutely nothing at the end. They don't want to have enough time or energy to acknowledge the fact…they're not ever going to do something with their lives."

"They're going to die here, without ever knowing what true happiness feels like. So they may as well compensate by never feeling true sadness. Just numb. Ev-er-ybody wants to feel numb."

* * *

Stan had accompanied enough drunk girls to know exactly what this meant:

It meant she was drunk off her ass and if he ever mentioned this, this revelation while she was sober, she'd laugh.

But there was something real about her drunken ramblings. He'd never heard anything like that before.

Wendy wiped her eyes.

* * *

"I can't be like that, Stan. I need to get out of here."

She cradled her head again and cried.

Stan wrapped his arms around her.

"Wendy, Wendy…you're going to get out of here. You are too strong not to make it out of this town. Where do you wanna go to college?"

Wendy sobbed.

"Columbia. Columbia University."

"That's in New York. You're going to be so far away…"

"I've got two years..!"

"Think about that, Wendy…it's not as long as it sounds when you're drunk."

Wendy buried her head in his arms and Stan felt her breathing slow. She was falling asleep. He stroked her hair and whispered…he hoped she'd remember his voice.

"Two more years, Wendy…two years."


End file.
